Rock-n-Rolla
by the corrupted quiet one
Summary: They were going to reach superstardom, or at least that's what Kyle thought. Turns out the managers only thought one of them was destined for greatness, and it sure wasn't him. Out of the spotlight, Kyle just wants his life to have a little rhythm again. Maybe he'll find it at Mick's Bowling Lanes. Or maybe he'll find it with Kenny's help. TW: Past/Implied Drug Use and Addiction
1. Elton

Who knew what they could accomplish? Nobody, really, not then, not when things were simpler, when it was just the two of them. They were working off loans, staving off boredom, a couple of recent graduates stuck in retail paying off their monthly rent and student loans, clinging to their sanity in the face of Middle America's bleak and cruel tedium. Then, with the winter sales melting as the snow piled up, they stumbled upon that lucky clearance, a pair of guitar controllers plus a copy of Rock Band, price steep for one bank account, manageable when split between two. They could've saved the money, could've bought something else, could've learned to play real instruments; instead, Stan and Kyle went half-and-half on the bundle, strapped those controllers to their chests, and played.

Hours upon hours—spanning across days and days and _weeks_—they wore their fingers brittle, mashing coloured fret buttons, plucking plastic strum bars, their movements matching the rhythms' dictates. Systematically, they mastered each genre, everything from metal and punk to alternative and indie to R&B and classic rock. They kept adding to their repertoire, their couch cash spent on downloadable content, honing their skills and climbing the ranks. The difficulty spiked, but they got better, better, better until they exclusively played on pro, aiming for zero fails, racking up the highest scores. They were unstoppable, untouchable, motherfucking invincible, because they were just two friends having fun. They had no idea what they would accomplish, or what that would do to them.

They were so wrapped up in perfecting their play that they ignored their steady rise, rise, rise towards the top. How silly they were, too busy grinding, never thinking of those glued to the online leader-boards. Once their gamer tags appeared amongst the global rankings, it was only a matter of time, until an agent came knocking on their door, begging for their signatures on a one-year contract, promising them money, prestige, _superstardom_. It was too good to be true, but they didn't see it that way, only saw it as far, far better than anything they had. They pledged their names so eagerly, so foolishly, because they wanted superstardom, because they didn't know its cost.

Stan and Kyle walked into the competitive scene as the two plucky fucks from pissant Colorado, green Rocky boys thrown to the game's most seasoned veterans. An easy win, the other duos thought, until they faced off on the rival stage, until Stan stacked his multipliers, until Kyle went into overdrive. They had a novelty and edge that hyped the crowd up, virtual and actual fans cheering on the screen and in the stands. Voices resounded through the air, rocked the ground beneath them, but the two of them were floating, flying, soaring. Everything happened in blinks, months compacted into minutes, their ascent rapid and steep. Contests. Tours. Guest appearances. Magazine covers. Brand deals. VIP treatment. Exclusive celebrity interviews. Flocking fawning groupies. Sex and coke parties. Only fame the fever, not the dream, and it fries the goddamn brain.

Maybe it was Kyle's fault, for not seeing it sooner. He told himself it was just his imagination, because they were billed as a pair, so their managers wouldn't put Stan over him. Maybe Stan didn't notice either, the vetting process subtle, the ousting process discreet. They started out as suggestions, like having Stan stick to lead and Kyle stay bass, claiming consistency would ease their training regime. They spun blatant lies as helpful aids, like saying they'd pre-select the tracks for competitions, shrugging their shoulders when all the complicated solos went to Stan. They found ways to keep them docile, like sending them to drug-fuelled orgies, hoping addictions would distract from their schemes. And both of them fell for it, let their momentum sweep them up, let it tear them apart.

Kyle told himself it was all in his head, over and over, even when Stan received glowing praise while he suffered biting critiques, when Stan modelled exclusive controllers while he used the boring standard, when Stan served as the entree while he sat as the side. Before long, Stan and Kyle had individual practices interspacing their joints, with separate coaches drilling different ideas in their heads. They asked nothing of Stan, but demanded Kyle alter his image entirely. They said Broflovski was such a mouthful, he ought to adopt a stage name; everyone knows Bob Dylan and Gene Simmons, not Robert Zimmerman or Chaim Witz. When Kyle mentioned Simon & Garfunkel, they rolled their eyes, told him it was just a thought. They considered his fro too distracting, he ought to trim the curls down their stalks; all that red bouncing about draws eyes away from the performance. When Kyle listed a slew of rockers with unruly hair, they shook their heads, told him it was a possible alternative. They inquired about his choice in _companions_, he ought to keep those details out of the press; some sponsors might consider his _preferences_ too political. When Kyle reminded them of the year, they bit their lips, told him it wasn't like that. He knew things were bad, but didn't realise the depth, not until it was too late.

They must have told Stan their own versions beforehand, convincing him that popularity corrupted him, that Kyle was no longer the person he knew. They poured him glass after glass of hundred-dollar Hennessey, hopped him up on designer pharmaceuticals, and whispered in his ear how Kyle starved for attention, how Kyle thirsted for glory, yet Kyle squandered his skill, Kyle exhausted his talent. Perhaps they told Stan that, as he diligently practiced the latest techniques, Kyle stubbornly clung to his faulty approaches, refusing any kind of guiding instruction, mistakes made more than corrected. Or perhaps they told Stan that, as he strove to break records, Kyle slept with any guy who would have him, spending more hours in bed than in the studio, fingers working cock more than frets. Or, _perhaps_, they never told Stan anything, but every time Kyle spoke of the stark contrasts in management's methods, Stan believed him less and less, distrusting him the slightest bit more with each strained confession. Was he already shooting up smack when Kyle told him that crap?

He doesn't know when the rift became a wedge, not precisely anyway. All he knows is, for the first time in his life, there was distance between them, bizarre estrangement born from blood going bad, bad because everyone pairs rock 'n roll with sex and drugs. The off season got to them, both seeking out pleasures and thrills, because the managers made them think that's what made a real _rock-n-rolla_. Stan got high and then drunk, Kyle got drunk and then high. Stan fucked stupid spoiled whores, Kyle screwed the Broncos' starting quarterback. Stan veered towards needles, and Kyle breathed in dust. They stopped thinking all together, because they had people for that, because status and privilege robbed them of free will and common sense. He might've figured it then, if he wasn't so blissed. What happened to them was his fault, too.

Kyle really was sick, that first week of prep, got a stupid, awful cold. Two days he coughed up thick globs of phlegm, throat stripped raw from hacking, chest hollowed out from spewing. He hated every mucosal cluster and clawing itch, how germs rendered his mind clouded, his body listless. He knew he needed to practice, to defend his and Stan's title, to achieve their gilded aspirations. On the third or fourth day, when the bleariness and delirium dulled just enough, he huffed a little something to perk himself up, and dragged his ass down to the studio. The last thing he expected was to see Stan playing with somebody else.

"_I was gonna tell you later…" _

Their managers signed them because they saw real potential to break a million points; but only in Stan. They just knew he wouldn't sign without Kyle, so they tacked him on as an accessory. From the start—the _very_ start—Stan was destined for greatness, but Kyle was _expendable_. And, with the duo divided, they finally won, persuaded him that he needed a new partner, someone who could _max_ his score, someone who could play "Buckethead" on Expert _acoustically_, someone who _wasn't_ Kyle. His whole body trembled and shook, as Stan drivelled out hollow excuses and empty apologies. Ocean blue eyes bore into him, pupils constricted and small, and Stan swore he would be fair about this, buy Kyle out.

"_You're high, aren't you?"_

The words left Kyle's lips, hung stagnant between them. The weight of the world rested upon them, crushing and cruel, harsh and unforgiving. Then, for the first time in a while, he saw in slow motion, or maybe it just seemed that way, because he hadn't seen in seconds since this shit began. He witnessed Stan's contrite expression ebb and fade, gradually morphing into cold, unfeeling apathy. Kyle watched his eyes flicker, down and then back, stare directly into the green. If only he could blame it all on drugs, on alcohol, on corporate mind games, credit those nasty corruptions, absolve Stan of his wrongs. But Kyle couldn't—still can't—because Stan held his gaze, raised a hand to his face, pointed to his nose. They stared at one another, for a good long while, before Kyle finally heard him snuff for effect, utter his bitter reply.

"_And you're not?"_

It was over in an instant, a breath, a single heartbeat. Attorneys drew up a settlement, Kyle compensated monetarily, but nothing reimbursed him for his time, for his effort, for his tireless devotion. Loyalty, apparently, isn't worth a dime, isn't worth a damn. Stan's dirty dollars flooded his account, and every other contractor dumped Kyle from their clientele. Nobody wanted him, a broken-down has-been with a pity severance and a tainted name. Management gladly cut their ties, groupies swiftly rushed to new hosts, even seemingly stable David sought out a truly _better_ half. Those waxen wings that carried him so high burnt up, incinerated, crumbled away. He learned the hard way that people only care for rising stars; the falling are best left to streak the night for a burst, then disappear in darkness' void.

Like that, Kyle was out, out of the game, out of the fame.

There's a whole two weeks Kyle can't remember. They weren't a fuzz, weren't a blur, simply a blank, devoid of even the vaguest recollections. He dove into a torrent, current swallowing him whole, likely hoping he'd drown in the throes. Instead he washed up on a pastel couch in Golden, taken in by his middle school ex, the only girl he ever actually dated, the only person who still talked to him. Bebe wouldn't explain how he got to her doorstep, the state he was in or the things he said to her, however she did say he could stay as long as he needed, stay so long as he got his shit together. That meant withdrawal with all its nasty and nauseating aftermath, moderation with all its arbitrary and annoying constraints, recovery with all its tedious and gradual improvements. He got better bitterly, because the sobriety's heavy weight felt worse than the daze's purging oblivion. Do true _rock-n-rolla_s feel regret or remorse?

Eventually, Kyle unlearned his awful habits, cut most of them out, managed the few that remained. He accepted his life's circumstance, understood they were manipulated, although they weren't without fault. He realised it didn't really matter, none of it at all, because fame is fleeting and fickle, but there is life beyond its fade. There's more to living than fans, than money, than points. With what he had left from the buyout, Kyle bought his parents a luxury condo in Miami, funded his little brother's research project somewhere in Shaanxi, paid for Bebe's doctoral studies at the Mines. He made them take his offers, because he refused to keep a cent for himself, not in good conscience. Besides, he only gave away the shares Stan forced him to take, not his personal savings. That put them at ease, although he omitted the meagre sum attached to his balance. He knew he didn't have a lot, but he knew how much he needed, how much was enough.

Once he cleaned up, he didn't want to be a burden, leech off the people whose souls he sucked dry with his stream of entitled idiocy and momentous disappointments. So, in the middle of a busy day, Kyle packed up his things, scrawled an explanation down on a college-ruled legal pad, and left to wander from town to town, sleep in cheap hotels and ride public buses, live his like a John Denver song. While drifting might not have been his smartest choice, it certainly wasn't the dumbest thing he's done; but it was still an idealistic, romantic, and remarkably stupid idea. He doesn't know what he thinks of it, either, whether he regrets it or not. He hopes he doesn't, because he already has too many of those. Kyle honestly can't tell.

The state of Colorado is over one hundred thousand square miles, famous for its natural wonders and alpine splendours. However, spread across those hundred thousand square miles are the remnants of quaint and kitschy Americana, embodied in the small towns no one visits, in the backwoods dumps no one cares about. South Park is little more than a piss-stop, nuzzled amongst the peaks, spurning off the tracks of a railroad defunct since the late nineteenth century. Growing up, Kyle heard of it in passing, a nexus of weird and fucked-up shit disguised as a sleepy mountain town. He never thought he'd end up there, amongst the friendly faces and the humble folk, or that he'd be standing in front of a dingy bowling alley at a quarter to ten on a Thursday night; Kyle never thought a lot of things.

Mick's Bowling Lanes is one of those places that simply exists, neither thriving nor writhing, merely sustaining throughout the decades, long past the prime it never knew. It's dusty, like something left under a bed for years, like something lost behind a couch since childhood, like something that was always old and never new. Perhaps that perpetual antiquity makes it timeless, because nobody notices ageing when something is already aged. Kyle peers up at the marquee, squints to mitigate the chasing lights' stark flashes. Green eyes scan over the bold black letters, read the same four words that caught his eye in the newspaper, the same single phrase that got his brain really thinking again: **We Have Rock Band**.

Kyle can't explain it, but when he saw that advertisement, something _awoke_ in him, fierce and ferocious, a motherfucking fire. Embers he assumed burnt out long ago reignited, exploded, burst into an erupting and glorious blaze. Months, after months, he stumbled upon a chance to hold that controller, to hit those buttons, to finally play again. It must be an addiction, worse than booze or blow, than sex or smack. Part of him wonders what he's doing, what he's trying to prove. Maybe this is mistake. A sigh leaves his lips as a glacial cloud, as he stows a few creeping curls beneath his green ushanka, hoping the hat preserves anonymity, and starts across the chilly parking lot, heavy boots thudding against hard asphalt. He reaches the frosted glass, then pauses, stares into the tinted fog.

_A_ _mistake_, Kyle concludes, walking through this door is _definitely_ _a_ _mistake_.

But what's another to him, anyway?

He opens the door to a boisterous crash, the sweet and smooth collision of a polyester ball and plastic-coated pins, resounding and echoing, a clap of rhythmic thunder. Kyle never got into bowling, save for a few dabbles in Wii Sports, but he always liked that noise, that profoundly satisfying clatter. That initial contact has a percussive quality, oddly soothing in its split-second production, musical whether the ball eliminates all foes or leaves a choice pin or two defiantly standing. Alleys are designed like orchestra chambers, acoustics capturing the strangely dulcet notes, then letting them linger in the air moments after. And it does, for a blink, until the cacophonous chorus of redneck bowlers rises over the echo, beauteous resonance drowned out by slurred cheers. Kyle's eyes dart to the sunken lanes, most of them vacant, then spies the group of sloshed hicks engrossed in their game. As he spectates their swaying rally, the smells hit him hard, nostrils filling with the oppressive stenches of greasy finger-food and musty old socks. Places like this always smell _homey_, which is a polite way of saying _absolutely disgusting_.

Kyle shakes his head, looks over to the shoe rental desk. A woman sits slouched behind the bulky register, bottle blonde streaks highlighting limp brown hair, eyes glued to the latest issue of _People_ magazine. A gay fish dominates the cover page, but one of the side-story bubbles holds a picture of Stan and Thad, captioned _Great Minds Play Alike_. A fluff piece, he figures, promoting Stan's new partnership, addressing Kyle's sudden absence. They probably use words like _transition_ and _creative differences_, avoiding the real tale of _replacement_ and _coerced termination._ That ugliness goes right to the tabloids, ones that print about solving JonBenét's murder or discovering Elvis alive, dirty secrets displayed where no one will believe them, truth protected by its sources' lacking credentials. Weekly magazines aren't much better, but they at least keep their publicity mostly positive. Hell, they photoshopped the red from Stan's eyes. Most of it, anyway.

Approaching the counter, Kyle wonders how effective his shoddy camouflage is. After all he's been through, he wants people to see him as _nobody_—not _a nobody_. The woman doesn't look up from her article, too absorbed in the drama of Canadian royal life, as Kyle anxiously tugs down on his hat's long flaps. His eyes flicker to her name tag, TAMMY etched into eggshell plastic, then to the floor. He stares at the carpet's loud geometric pattern, funky mustard triangles and streaky ketchup dashes splayed across a dill relish background, then takes a slow, measured breath.

"_Where's the arcade?"_ The question pours as a syllabic rush, quick yet clear, a brisk rivulet. Soon as the words leave his lips, hesitation seizes his throat, sawdust coating his tongue, lead filling his lungs. He fixates on his shoes, only the shapes get sharper, their colours more vibrant, more distracting, more appalling. The design is one big optical illusion, one of those pictures that move the longer someone looks at it. Except, whenever Kyle looks at them, he just feels nauseous and dizzy. Yup, this was _definitely_ a _mistake_.

When he lifts his head, he sees the woman—Tammy—staring at him. Smoked out liner rims deep oak eyes, wide with surprise. In a town this size, everyone knows everyone, rarely meeting an unfamiliar face. Or a formerly famous one at that. Kyle doesn't notice recognition flash in the brown, but he easily could've missed it. Heavy lashes flutter as she blinks, once-twice, and she raises her hand. Shiny red glazes her manicured nail, as she points down the way, _"Over by the snack bar." _

Kyle flashes a small smile, _"Thanks." _

"_Did you wanna…" _She starts, but leaves her mid-sentence, armed with all he needs. She probably thinks he's a rude asshole, but he doesn't care about shit like appearances or politeness right now.

No, he only cares about that urge overtaking him, the one that tickles his palms and itches his fingers, the one that resonates in his bones and permeates his blood, the one that he can't shake, only slake, slake, slake. His heart skips in his chest, beating out of rhyme as he guns for the back. The arcade, he discovers, is a sorry collection of bulky machines lining part one wall, most of them dinosaur titles like _E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial_ and _Custer's Revenge_. A pair of elementary schoolers—the unfortunate sons dragged to their fathers' bowling night—sink their attentions and allowances into _Fortnite_ for mobile, leaning on _Shaq Fu_ and ignoring the console with a single game installed.

Whoever set this up did so with loving care, assembling a complete band: two guitars, one microphone, a drum-set, even the damn keyboard. The flat-screen television affixed to the wall proudly displays the song selections, menu dimmed by idleness' power-saving veil. As he steps closer, a smile curves his lips, the kind of toothy and wild grin little kids wear on their first trip to Disney World. Kyle's dreams came true, then came _un_true; staring at that logo, it feels like they might come true again, if only for a moment. Reaching for a guitar, his body feels light, buoyant, a helium balloon climbing towards the stratosphere. Like that first concert, when Kyle and Stan hovered before the audience, used their cheers to fly. They might've clipped his wings, but it takes a lot more than that to keep Kyle on the ground. A hell of a lot more.

Pressing a few buttons restores the screen's brightness, Kyle squinting at its glare, the unbalanced contrast and oversaturated vibrance annoying but negligible. He can still read the song list with ease, recognise the melodies from titles alone. So many of them are memories—The Who, Duran Duran, Pixies—artists they practiced with from the beginning—Mötley Crüe, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana—hits they perfected on stage. Foreigner, Green Day, Blink-182—Kyle wants to play so fucking badly—Franz Ferdinand, Gorillaz, REO Speedwagon—but the options overwhelm him. Ozzy Osbourne, KISS, the Offspring—he decides to mash down the list—AFI, the White Stripes, Megadeath—so fast he can't see. He inhales through his nose—the Jimi Hendrix Experience, Fleetwood Mac, Bon Jovi—leaves choice to chance—Billy Joel, Rush, Joan Jett & the Blackhearts—waits for the most arbitrary moment—Queen, Grateful Dead, Creedence Clearwater Revival—and stops.

Elton John: there's a _real_ rock-n-rolla. Perfect combination of style, soul, and bona-fide talent. He wrote awesome music, however his mastery of sheets stopped at the notes, composing emotive but wordless melodies. Luckily, he had Bernie Taupin, the poetic mind behind Elton's lyrics, one articulating feelings, the other imbuing them in beats. Fads of the decades came and went, but their collaborative efforts endured the industry's fickle moods, an omnipresent force of glam and pop and blues. Kyle assumed he and Stan would be the same way, their bond too strong. And it was, just not immune to erosion, not exempt from abuse, not so unbreakable. Sure, Kyle still hurts, the wounds of betrayal slow to scar and heal, but he isn't broken, isn't beaten, isn't lying down in defeat.

Kyle's still standing—_yeah, yeah, yeah_.

Alright, he might've _initially_ landed on "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me," then saw a "I'm Still Standing," and _deliberately_ scrolled to it. He's allowed to pick whatever the fuck he wants again, and he sure as shit won't pass up such glaring and blatant symbolism. He automatically sets up for bass, but, before he cranks up the difficulty, he pauses. Playing bass was fun once, when it was his choice, when it wasn't forced on him, when it was his role in _Stan's_ development. Now Stan has a new bassist, and no one is stopping Kyle from taking back lead guitar. He corrects the input—_One Player, Guitar, Pro Mode, Expert_—and presses _Play Song_.

A band of poorly rendered stock models appears, but Kyle only pays attention to the extending guitar neck. His eyes concentrate on the five markers—green, red, yellow, blue, orange—each corresponding to a fret on his controller. Rhythm games all operate under the same simple principle: hit the right button at the right time, hold down as directed. The competitive circuit nurtured Kyle's senses, teaching him how to optimise his points. He meticulously times his presses, waiting for the moment the gem enters the slim _perfect_ threshold, then responding with rapid and exacting precision. _Impressive_, that's what people used to say; too bad the right people didn't feel the same.

The markers flash, and Kyle feels that _rush_ flow through him, the one sharper than nicotine and fiercer than amphetamines. His pulse races, blood boiling under his skin, searing his veins. His mind clears, nebulous worries shoved aside, all attention focused on the stretch of black. He bites his lips, flexes his fingers. An unseen hand _clap, clap, clap-clap-clap-claps_.

The first two notes are orange and blue, a synchronised hold Kyle presses a half-second late. Teeth burrow deeper, seeing the rust on his skill showing, tapping the red a hair too early, releasing the yellow a little bit late. The icon beside the score bar sinks, lowering in shame. He holds his breath, trying harder, only for the opening rifts to undermine him, mock him, repeat his darkest thoughts. Maybe he was holding Stan back, he was simply too proud to admit it. Maybe he never had actual skill, he merely faked his way through. Maybe he is where he is for a reason, he never belonged on stage in the first place. Doubt creep in, closer and closer—until a velvet voice cuts through the clouds, and imparts on Kyle ancient wisdom of the early eighties.

"_You could never know what it's like! Your blood like winter freezes just like ice!"_

Kyle used to be surrounded by people, all plastic and superficial, devoid of emotional intelligence and complex thought. None of them will ever know the type of hell he's been through—they couldn't understand it if they tried! To them, he was a handkerchief, useable for a time, ultimately disposable. They blew their noses with him, drenched and mired him with snotty negativity, then tossed him when the stains they engrained in him wouldn't wash out with bleach.

"_And there's a cold lonely light that shines from you!"_

They pretended they cared, because they had to, and Kyle believed them, because he wanted to. But they never, ever did, not genuinely, not at all. They probably don't care about Stan, either, but they like him more, think he's more fun. They warped him into thinking he could be one of them; that had to be it, right?

"_You'll wind up like the wreck you hide behind that mask you use!"_

They must've been elated when Stan finally squeezed him out. Shit, some probably took bets on what would happen to him after, hoping he'd OD on a bad batch or commit somewhere public. Must've disappointed them when he fell off the map, obscurity less sexy than manufactured tragedy.

"_And did you think this fool could never win? Well look at me, I'm a-coming back again!"_

Fuck them. Fuck the managers. Fuck the groupies. Fuck the sponsors and the agents. Fuck all the high-end dope slingers and uptown pricy prostitutes. They all forced the crash, wanted him to burn—_fuck them!_ Kyle doesn't need them! He _never_ needed them! _They_ needed _him!_

"_I got a taste of love in a simple way, and if you need to know while I'm still standing you just fade away!"_

Right from day one, _needed_ him to get to views, to get traction, to get Stan. They won't admit it, but they _still_ need him. They won't say it until it's too late—well, tough shit. Kyle's _better_ without them, without all of them. He doesn't need _'coaches'_ eroding his confidence, doesn't need _'handlers'_ dictating his movements, doesn't need a _'leader'_ overshadowing his accomplishments.

"_And don't you know I'm still standing, better than I ever did!"_

Muscle memory returns, maybe because he's warmed up, maybe because he's fired up. His brain tilts into overdrive, transcending mere concentration, entering a wholly different state. The note highway flows directly into his head, registering gems as soon as they reach him. Kyle stops hitting notes, and starts _nailing_ them.

Because Kyle _is_ a survivor, of exploitation and addiction, debasement and fraud, heartbreak and betrayal. He lived through all that crazy shit, lost everything, everything except his fighting spirit. He'll always be that scrappy kid with a little too much _chutzpah_, that bruised boy with raised and bloodied fists, that pain in the ass with a score to settle. He won't stay down unless he's dead, and, as of now, he's breathing and beating just fine. Sure, he's on his own, he's got some issues, he's still figuring shit out; doesn't change that he's _still standing_.

_Yeah._

_Yeah. _

_YEAH. _

As the shorter second verse rolls in, Kyle tap-tap-taps his foot, shake-shake-shakes his knee. Despite his musical prowess, his upper and lower halves run on two separate metronomes, one that syncs with the song, the other that ticks awkwardly out of rhythm. His motions naturally contradict, a quirk Kyle long since accepted, a perplexity management sorely despised. To fix the problem, they assigned him a choreographer, restricted him to a small set of moves, and disallowed him from dancing with any shred of emotion. So he never mastered matching his footwork with his fingers; at least he knows how to _feel_.

Gems oscillate between rainbow and white, sneaking bursts of double points throughout the chorus. A little compensation for his flubs at the intro, however he refuses to blow his bonus too soon. No, through the proud declarations and airy affirmations, he conserves his energy, saves it for the solo. Kyle can't recall the last time he had one, so many opportunities stolen from him, bestowed upon Stan. He'll take them back, one by one, starting here, starting now. Another round of _yeah-yeah-yeah_s, then a box appears on the horizon. Kyle leans into his tilt, fingers gliding along the neck, every punch bumping up the percentage, going from zero to twenty, forty-five to sixty, seventy-five to one hundred: _Perfect Solo_.

A staccato laugh escapes his lips, Kyle noticing a dull ache in his cheeks. A _smile_, he hasn't smiled like this in ages, hasn't had fun like this in forever. Golden lace accents a royal blue road, every gem a blazing meteorite. The hold lines quiver, shudder like plucked strings, Kyle playing like a _real_ rock-n-rolla. Elton's vocals persist, repeating his titular rally, and Kyle, under his breath, replies with his own _"Yeah, yeah, yeah."_

Red, red-yellow, yellow, yellow-blue, blue, blue-orange _HOLD_—the last note hangs, hovers somewhere between him and the television. Gradually, it ebbs, scattering as the virtual crowd raises its collective voice, showering Kyle with pre-programmed cheers. He knows they aren't real, knows they're only lines of code executing an embedded audio track, yet they feel real, realer than the past few months, than the wavering trust and the suspended belief and the too painful fall. When he looks, though, he knows which is real and which isn't, because the crowd is only background noise, because the screen displays only one score, because Stan isn't standing beside him.

There goes picking up the pieces _without_ him on his mind.

Kyle slowly comes down from his rhapsodies, grudgingly returns to Mick's Bowling Lanes. His heart pounds, bang-bang-bangs in his chest, while his lungs heave in and out, in and out. Sweat coats his palms, the controller slick from his hands. In his peripheral, he glimpses the two kids, both ignoring their phones, both staring at him. He turns head, a new lightness filling him, this dizziness closer to sickness than stupor.

The boys look at Kyle, then one another. They briefly converse through raised brows and shrugged shoulders, communications encrypted to keep sucky adults out. One of them nods, and the two straighten up. Children are brutally honest, callous and obnoxious in their youthful insensitivity. Neither hides the apathy glazing their eyes, nor does one conceal their shared disdain, stating bluntly, _"Rhythm games are for fags."_

Kyle bites back a sneer, reminding himself not to pick fights with stupid snot-nosed grade schoolers. They have parents, who're probably _more_ annoying than they are, and, considering the rustic locale, probably cling to their Second Amendment rights. Kyle can think of few lamer ways to die than getting gunned down for badmouthing a pair of brats. Instead, he narrows his eyes, glower following the two as they walk away. After a few steps, they forget his existence, instead launch into a heated debate: which emote is better, the infinite dab or the floss? Putting back the controller, Kyle rolls his eyes—_kids these days_.

Wooziness casts its haze, his legs wobbling, his head whooshing. His blinks mimic an optometrist's test, first clear, then fuzzy, maybe clearer, maybe fuzzier, the same as the last one, is there really a difference between four and five? He groans, rubbing his forehead, rethinking his recent diet of one dollar-menu meal per day. Kyle isn't rich and drifting isn't cheap. Frugality is a necessity, albeit living off McChicken sandwiches isn't exactly ideal. And it's catching up to him, judging by the haze seeping in. All he needs is a place to sit down, take a few minutes to compose himself, to wait out the spell. Didn't Tammy mention a snack bar?

Kyle glances around, hating the fluorescents and their stark, awful glare. His gaze skids over the floor, avoiding the vomit-inducing carpet, instead stumbling on backless barstools lining scratched panelling, on ceramic ashtrays adorning peeling laminate, on shelves stocked with local league trophies and trashy s'mores schnapps. The ample liquor stock emphasises the _bar_, though the chalkboard menu overhead advertises a meagre selection of pre-packaged _snacks_. He doesn't care for the refreshment range, though, too focused on the acrylic orange cushions set on stainless steel beams. He forces himself steady, each step carefully calculated to minimise stumbles, avoid any slips. Kyle lost count of the appearances he went to smashed, loaded on martinis or tripping on acid, lost count of how many times he got away it, passing off severe inebriation as simple clumsiness. For some reason, feigning coordination is a lot easier when _blasted_ than when _sober_; perhaps he _should_ get a drink.

The metal frame creaks as Kyle takes his seat, whining with every slight shift of his weight. The cushion is stiff, firm and uncompromising, its stuffing concrete. He leans over the counter, sees a myriad of scrapes and marks, the remnants of spilt alcohol and cigarette embers. How long have they been there, he wonders, since about a week ago or the beginning of time? Since he was pleasing convention halls of people or working two jobs to pay rent? Since he was somebody worthwhile or somebody worth shit?

His ears perk at a crisp pop, the fizzy crack of a bottle losing its top. Most parties he went to served drinks pre-poured, platters stocked with slender flutes or curved snifters, the classy stemware's presentational value outweighing the imported liquor's foul flavour. Kyle prefers sipping straight from the source, something more intimate about chilled tinted glass than ornately sculpted crystal. Or maybe he just likes the noise, that mix of _CCC_ and _RRR_ and _PPP_ and _SSS_. Cans don't sound that nice.

He blinks, looking at imitation wood one moment, at vitreous green the next. A carbonated wisp rises from the bottle's rim, carrying hints of citrus, sour yet sweet, and yet bitter too. Glass perspires, acclimating to the lanes' temperate warmth, dribbles rolling down the smooth contours, to the soggy paper pressed around the body, to the rough fingers curved around the label. Kyle connects hand to arm, covered with metallic plating and cybernetic circuits, cold robotics inked onto warm skin. He follows illustrated wires run along muscle, until they plug into something hidden under a rolled orange sleeve. He skims over the shoulder, notes the shirt's fit too loose, its top button missing and its collar folded all wrong, eyes only stopping when he finds a face.

Most country boys are coal, plentiful clusters found in mountain mines, all dirty, common, and unremarkable. Every now and then, though, there's a glimmer that cuts through the dust, one who scintillates and shines, a fabled diamond in the rough. Those types are only found in nature, never meant for a jeweller's cut or treatment, far more appealing rugged and coarse. His hair is spun gold ore, sharing its softness and shade, a tousled mess dishevelled just right. The eyes what sell him, clear blue skies taken from midsummer afternoons, captured and preserved in his sunny gaze. Kyle might be too out of it, but he swears that look heats him up.

"_Fresca?"_ His voice is a breeze, light and relaxing, infused with a menthol chill. Locks glint and bounce as he tilts his head, mouth curving into a grin, lopsided and goofy. Part of the _charm_, Kyle figures, the one grown in backyards like off-market marijuana, cultivated by small town simplicity and brisk mountain air. But, unlike the flashes people wore for camera shutters, this feels genuine, honest.

"Sorry…" Green flits to the menu, double checking the price. One soft drink is a steep _tree-fiddy_, well out of his self-mandated budget. Kyle isn't a fool, or he's trying not to be. All those backstabs conditioned him, made him vigilant and sceptical, turned him guarded and wary. Distrust, he learned, saves the heart some ache. Isolation might be frigid, but at least it's safe. He looks back at him, then offers a shrug, "I can't pay for that."

"Hmm…" A pinkie _tap-tap_s on glass, blue drifting to the side. His eyes fall on a mason jar, containing a few single bills and a collection of coins, label plastered on its side reading _TIPS_. He sticks his free hand in, fishes out a few crinkled bills, picks out some cents. He puts down one, two, three faded Washingtons, along with a motley of nickels, pennies, and a dime. Sliding the money over, a smirk teases at his lips, "How 'bout now?"

_Great_—he thinks Kyle's a charity case, how _fan-fucking-tastic_. A part of him wants to say no just on principle, tell him to screw off for good measure. Except he can't, because he doesn't have a reason, his sole justification his own stale bitterness. Sometimes being closed off is an act of self-defence; other times it's a bad excuse for being a dick. Besides, why be go full asshole on a guy giving him something for free? He bites his lip, reluctantly reaches out. Their fingers brush against each other, only for a second, before Kyle brings the bottle closer. He lifts it to his mouth, presses the rim to his bottom lip, then remembers to say, _"Thanks."_

"No problem," He blinks, maybe winks, and leans back. Kyle doesn't think into it, distracts himself with a fresh sip of grapefruit and lime. The carbonation tickles his tongue, tangy and tingly, bubbles pop-pop-popping. Fresca is _so_ much better than motor-oil coffee and unfiltered water. Then, mid-swallow, Kyle hears, "What brings ya here?"

Soda hardens in his throat, Kyle gulping down hard. He hasn't been wandering long, but he has heard that question a good hundred times. The major downside of frequenting kitschy shitholes is that anyone _not from around here_ becomes a spectacle. Kyle once depended on fans favour, thrived on attention; without success protecting him, exposure is a risk. He hates when people find him fascinating, consider his presence intriguing, treat like a walking-talking circus. However, like all forms of small talk, Kyle doesn't have to like it, only deal with it, "Just passing through."

He lets out a short laugh, chuckle mixing with exhale. He must've heard that answer a good hundred times, because what other one is there? It doesn't clarify anything, but that's often the point; people say that in hopes others take the hint and leave them alone. He ought to know that—respect that, too—yet he stays where he is, holds his ground, _"Really?"_

_Oh, for fuck's sake_—Sour acid saturates his mouth, eliminates all traces of saccharine sweeteners. He finishes his sip, and slams down the bottle. He narrows his eyes, knits his brows. His voice is a whetted bladed, tone sharp, timbre piercing, "Yeah, _really_."

"Y'know…" Either Kyle let his tongue dull or he takes slices like a champ. Undaunted and unshaken, he leans closer, one of those dumbass daredevil kids who takes a dog's snarling as a petting invitation. Blue locks with green, then brims with something vivid, something soft—compassion? "Not a lotta people _just passin' through_ stop by a _bowling alley_ to play _Rock Band_."

"Yeah, well…" Although Kyle wants to argue, he sure as shit isn't _wrong_. Kyle can't blame the town for his actions, especially when they're weird even in context. Frustration squeezes his head, and he murmurs, "I'm not a lotta people."

"Didn't think ya would be…" He nods, slow and bobbing, an even tempo. His gaze retains its tenderness as his expression turns pensive, a soothing blend of kindness and thought. Kyle never bought into all the crap about eyes, however this guy gives those romanticisms some credence.

Kyle spots the hand in his peripheral too late. Before he can react and pull away, fingers clutch one flapping fabric ear, then yank the ushanka from his head. Crimson fluffs out, curls thankful to breathe again, Kyle not thankful at all, _"Hey!" _

"_Kyle Broflovski_," He says the name triumphantly, enunciates each syllable in tempered marvel. Kyle lunges forward, stretching out an arm, only to be thwarted by the pesky countertop. His fingers brush the lime fringe before the _most annoying douchebag ever_ steps back, exploiting the barrier between them.

"Give it back—" He glances at the name tag, "—_Dennis_."

"_Kenny_, actually," Kyle likes his nickname better, "Mick's owed me a tag since I started."

"_I don't care_," Screw not looking like an asshole. This is personal, now, "Give that _back_!"

"I will, I will, _promise_," Kenny assures him, though Kyle isn't convinced, swiping again at the hat. Kenny sighs, raises it high above his head. Kyle stares up, realising how stupidly _tall_ he is, his brilliant disguise well out of his reach, "_If_ ya answer one question."

No, this isn't the first time Kyle's been _outed_ whilst going _incognito_. No matter where he goes, he bumps into someone he doesn't know, but seems to know him. And, whoever it is, they always have _just one_ _question_. Except it's never one about him. No, they never care about him. Coming here was definitely a mistake.

Hesitant, Kyle sits down, gaze dropping to the laminate. He tightens his grip on the bottle, strangling the glass, wishing his anger could make it crack, crack, burst. He sighs, then presses his lips into a firm line. No point prolonging it, might as well make it quick, "What?"

"_How long's it been since you played?" _

_Stan_, he expects a question about Stan—_What's he like?_ or _What's his favourite track?_ or _Does he sleep and shit and eat Frosted Flakes like the rest of us lowly peasants?_—they only ever ask Kyle worthless, stupid questions about _Stan, Stan, Stan_. They ask him basic things easily found in a Google search or obscure details embedded on some superfan's website. They don't ask about Kyle unless they ask why _he_ broke them up, because of course they assume the whole thing was his fault.

A deafening strike booms through the alley, but it's Kenny's question that echoes, repeats. _You_, he said, not Stan Marsh. The bowlers holler from their lanes, and Kyle lifts his head. Kenny waits patiently, his body relaxed, but his stare intent, burning with curiosity. Shit, he really wants to know something about _Kyle_ _Broflovski_, about him and him alone. Since he's so considerate, Kyle shouldn't disappoint, "Few months. Four or five, maybe."

"_Fuck_," Baffled, Kenny raises his brows, "_That_ long?"

"You said _one_ question," Kyle hates how he sounds, dry and wry. Emotions may flare like tides, but venom dilutes like radiation. He waters it down with more Fresca, wonders how much Kenny saw of Kyle's performance. Did he see from the solo? Did he witness the mangled opening? Was he watching the whole time?

"I'm keepin' my promise," True to his word, Kenny lowers his hand, extends it over the counter. Kyle keeps drinking, chugging down citrus, and snatches the hat. Once he finishes, he sets down the bottle, holds the ushanka by the flaps, and flips it on his head. Curls sweep across his forehead, sticking out in disarray. Kyle takes them in clusters, tucking bunch after bunch beneath the woollen brim. Halfway through, Kenny looks off to the side, mumbling to himself, "You look better without it."

People say all sorts of things when they don't think anyone's listening, or when they think whoever they're talking about can't hear them. Kyle quickly learned that celebrity parties are half cordial schmoozing and half spiteful whispering. He also learned that a honed sense of hearing is more useful than a willed daze of ignorance. Kyle's heard a whole lot of things people haven't wanted him to hear, most of them ranging from grossly rude to downright cruel. In mutters they showed their true emotions, so he never heard hidden compliments. Come to think of it, he rarely heard compliments _in general_. Of course, Kenny probably didn't _want_ Kyle to hear that, but he _did_. And it's the nicest thing a stranger's said about him in a long, long while.

Warmth pools under his cheeks, a pink tinge colouring his skin. Kyle damns his complexion, pale tone making the slightest blush _pronounced_. He slides off the stool, landing with a muffled _thunk_, angles for the exit. He yanks on the flaps, safely hiding his face, then says in a huff, _"I didn't ask."_

One, two steps, then—

"_Wait!" _

Kyle stops, turns around.

Kenny's mouth hangs open, words teetering on the tip of his tongue. He didn't expect to get this far, Kyle surmises, assumed Kyle would walk off and out of his life, "How long 're you here for?"

"Do I have to answer?" Who knows?

"No…" Maybe he will leave Mick's Bowling Lanes and never come back.

"A little while…" Or maybe he won't, "Why?"

"Case ya can't tell, not a lot goes on around here," Kenny scans over the lanes, their loneliness weighing down his shoulders, "Like, ever."

"Uh-huh."

"But if you wanted to, y'know, do something," Kenny gestures towards the console. He simpers, corners of his mouth twitching, anxiety chipping at his cool composure, "I could always ask Mick 'bout hiring some real entertainment."

A gig. At a bowling alley. In South Park. He can see the tabloids now—How, oh how, could a promising artist sink so low? Where is Stan, his gallant knight, to save him from the bowels of mediocrity? They'd have a fucking field day—if they managed to find him. Are they really going to look for him? And, even if they do, are they going to look _here_?

"I'll think about it," Kyle keeps his tone ambiguous, but a smile gives him away. Right now, though, he doesn't really care.

His nerves melt away, goofy grin returning in full force, "My shift starts at eight."

Facing forward, Kyle lets out a laugh. Yeah, that was _definitely_ a wink.


	2. Iggy

When Kyle was a household name, he didn't do _gigs_. If he and Stan performed, it was a _concert_, it was an _appearance_, it was an _event_. It was never a _gig_. According to the producers, the only people who do gigs are _two-bit hacks_ and _desperate wannabes_, people far beneath their prized and precious _talents_. Kyle believed them, back then, unaware that _his_ star was never included amongst their constellations. They probably bit their tongues before they said the only people who do gigs are people like _him_.

Considering _where_ he's playing, Kyle can't say they're _wrong_.

Kyle _can_ say that he is _absolutely fucking exhausted_. Poor him, he forgot that time works differently without a schedule, without signings and practices and photo shoots and cocktail invites, without escorts to studios and sets and rich prick's penthouse suites. He used to be lucky if he had forty-five minutes to himself, precious moments of down-time far rarer than white-gold Rolexes and seven-thirty horsepower Lambos. Except the regimen taught him to hate its respites, encouraged hobbies that fucked him out of free will, because those restless pauses go away with a fifth of vodka, with a tablet of ecstasy, with a few lines of coke. Hours can be so _goddamn needlessly long_, days can pass at a _gruelling and unforgiving crawl_; but that's just life's _natural_ pace.

Kyle's still adjusting to it.

He purposely slept in, spent the morning tossing and turning on the janky mattress at the Komfort Inn, finally rising around noon, after he got sick of lying around. He showered so long the hot water went cold, but that only killed half an hour, still left seven-plus more. Intrigued by the rumours, Kyle decided to wander around town, searching for strange to keep himself busy. Except bizarre things don't happen unless they're unexpected, or that's the conclusion he came to after three hours walking between the sad downtown strip and the supposed 'historic' district. Fatigue set in before the sun slunk behind the peaks, boredom draining him while the sky turned from blue to purple to black. Even now, the world's spinning under his feet, except its rotation is painfully slow. Kyle cannot think of anything he hates more than the expanses of idle minutes, of worthless seconds, of wasted breathes and pointless beats.

With a slow inhale, he reminds himself that he spent today _waiting_, as opposed to his routine _wasting_. He can kid himself all he wants, say that Keystone has more hiking trails, that Leadville has more history, that Breckenridge has more breweries; but what did they offer him? He found no purpose there, not strolling on dirt paths, not loitering around train stations, not sipping flights of craft beer. They gave him daylight distractions and late-night diversions, never anything that'd keep him, quell him, sate him. He expected South Park to be the same, until he saw that ad, until he tracked down this place, until he picked up that plastic guitar, remembered how it felt to be alive. He can hold onto that too, if he lands the gig, if they need a gig, if they _want_ a gig. Kenny seemed pretty confident, but Kyle's not so sure.

Eight must be the early shift, or so he surmises when he steps once again through the frosted glass doors. He kind of expected it after his walk through the scarcely populated parking lot, assumed half the cars and trucks belonged not Mick's patrons but employees. The ghostly lanes validate him, the alley even less lively than the night before.

A pair of old men replace yesterday's beer-guzzling group, early birds breaking a nursing curfew. They remind Kyle of those old Hanna-Barbera cartoon, a greying Barney Rubble and a wrinkled Fred Flintstone, still cracking era-appropriate jokes and pausing after each punchline. The laugh track never plays, though, because all the people who recorded those chuckles and chortles are dead, have been for years. Or maybe they're buried, maybe they're cremated, maybe they're at the bottom of the great blue sea. Slumming with the Snorks—_if you could breathe underwater, where would you go?_ Now _that_ was a quality show worth getting up early on a Saturday.

Kyle sighs, mostly in relief. The night is young, too young for many to venture to these ruins, to witness his _audition_. That's what this is—a measly _try-out_—because his former fame doesn't guarantee him the gig, because it doesn't mean shit unless it's working against him. Why, he's barely put much thought into passing or failing, thoughts instead occupied with potential onlookers. A part of him feared that perhaps Kenny told Mick, and then Mick told a friend, who told a friend, who told a friend, who told a friend, and a friend, and a friend of a friend. Then the vultures would gather, smart phones recording his entrance, posting to ever social media platform the tragic and pitiful sight of the once great Kyle Broflovski.

Thankfully, he isn't important enough for such intense documented scrutiny. He probably never was. Anxiety can be so narcissistic sometimes.

"_There you are!" _

When Kyle turns his head, Tammy walks towards him, quickly abandoning the shoe rentals to greet him. Unlike last night, she _recognises_ him, seeing not an awkward rando with a funny hat but a bona fide _someone_. Well, someone who _was_ a _someone_, but that's still a lot cooler than her usual suspects. Oak brown brims with starstruck exhilaration, her smile spread wider than her eyeliner wings. She stops in front of him, does one of those sorority-squat poses so their faces are level. Then, she holds her hands to her cheeks, matte nail polish capturing the fluorescent lights' sheen.

"_Kyle Broflovski_," She says in that dreamy fangirl way, overwhelmed and out of breath. Her smile widens, and she claps her palms together, "I can't _believe_ I didn't recognise you."

It's been a while since he's heard that tone used on him, although he can't say he misses it all too much. All sorts of fans used to gawk at him and Stan, staring longingly and drooling lustfully, convinced their celebrity crushes would fall instantly for someone they'd never actually met. Tammy's pretty tame by those standards, her voice emanating genuine marvel, not secreting horny fantasies. Then again, he got a lot less of those after he and David went public. Some sent death threats anyway.

"I was undercover," Kyle wonders if his tone sounds light or leaden. He's always had a dry sense of humour. Wasn't always well translated on camera, though, some of his wry remarks straddling the line between funny and offensive. Stan only started calling him out on it after management intervened, because apparently booking late-night shows got a lot harder thanks to Kyle hurting a few hosts' feelings. Who knew Jimmy Fallon was the sensitive type?

"No excuse!" Tammy furrows her drawn-on brow, too upset with herself to care about the trivial nuances Kyle's mind often harps on. Instead, she focuses on redeeming herself for her past transgressions, whatever she perceives _those_ to be, "I was, like, _totally_ obsessed with Style a while back."

_Style_, now _that's_ a throwback. The portmanteau emerged early in their careers, cute and simple, highly versatile. It was easy to plaster on headlines, saved valuable space on marquees, and added playfulness to their introductions. The talent agency didn't mind it at first—they actively encouraged it for a time—until someone realised how it made them sound: like a super_couple_ more than a super couple of stars. Management called them in for a meeting, telling them that they were having some 'image concerns' and decided to rebrand them. Kyle jokingly asked if it was because of the fanfiction, and Stan called them out on their hesitant refusal.

"_Really?"_

"Yeah!" Tammy cheers, though her smile wavers. Then, she bites her lip, breaking her gaze, avoiding anticipated judgement, "Well, I didn't really follow _performances_ much… Just sorta _read_ about it…"

Kyle snorts. She probably hopes he thinks magazines, but the look on her face tells him she also delved into more _creative_ sources. Not that he gives a shit. Hell, after that talk, he and Stan spent the rest of the week mining for plotless smut about them on the Internet. They laughed about the factual inaccuracies and the outrageous scenarios, but acknowledged the writing prowess and the raw passion. It was jarring at first, reading hypothetical hook-ups between him and his best friend, though the weird novelty of it stuck with him, some strange marker that they'd truly reached the leagues of MCR and FOB and the innumerable K-Pop groups flooding the market. Besides, they made for some hilarious inside jokes.

"Guess I sound like a _fake fan_, huh?" Tammy speaks softly, practically talking to herself. More of a personal admonishment, for daring imply commitment when, compared to others, it lacks _true_ devotion. Some feel inferior following along at home, relying on text for their news, information relayed to them rather than sought for themselves. Or perhaps it lacks _pure_ devotion. Management did all they could to make Stan and Kyle not only idols but ideals; however, some sullied their perceptions by granting a space for human emotion, for having thoughts that weren't ordered, having feelings that weren't staged.

Once management got to Stan, he started calling those stories _creepy_, told Kyle to stop referencing them. According to him—or to those who told him—they were on par with the gay conspiracies fabricated in the tabloids, leaving out how one is done for imaginative fun, and the other for shameless profit. The shift, funnily, coincided with the disappearance of Stan's bisexuality, because if Kyle was so _dead set_ on being _queer_, then Stan just _had to_ be _straight_. Otherwise what would the advertisers think?

"You didn't miss much," Kyle cracks a smile, small and tired, hopefully reassuring. It must be, because when Tammy garners the courage to glance at Kyle again, she relaxes. As a subtle sigh leaves her lips, Kyle wonders how he of all people could possibly judge her. Clearly her view of him is kinder, jagged edges softened and smoothed through the power of words. Oh, if she knew even a _fraction_ of the _shit_ _he's done_… she'd know how little he deserves it.

He wasn't even a real _rock-n-rolla_.

"Lemme take ya back," Tammy's enthusiasm overrides formal boundaries, grabbing Kyle by the arm and dragging him behind her. She takes long, confident strides, unhampered by Kyle's initial stumbles. He can't tell whether the overzealous escort is extended hospitality or workplace procrastination. Probably a little bit of both.

As they approach the arcade, Kyle notices someone already hanging by the console. Not Kenny—this guy's a good three or four inches shorter, hair a hell of a lot darker, and notably lacking a robotic sleeve tat. He fiddles with one of the guitar controllers, carelessly mashing fret keys and flicking the strum bar, rocking out to whatever tune he's muttering under his breath. Pinned lopsidedly on his two-toned shirt is plastic nametag. Kyle squints, but before he can read the letters, Tammy calls out:

"_Clyde!_" Tammy's shrill holler interrupts the mumbled jam session.

The guy—Clyde—nearly drops the controller as he jolts upright, staring at Tammy with bulging chestnut eyes. She lets go of Kyle so she can put her hands on her hips.

Cocking her head to the side, "The _hell_ are you doing?"

"_Nothing!"_ Clyde whines the way teenage boys do when their mothers walk in on them masturbating to cringey internet porn. He clutches the controller defensively and puts on one of those proud yet defiant expressions, affirming to Kyle that Clyde hasn't aged mentally since he hit six-or-seventeen.

"_Where's Ken?"_ Tammy snaps, an older sister forced to use a more maternal tone. When she steadies her gaze, channelling in her glower every shred of annoyance, Clyde quickly folds.

"In Mick's office, giving his dumb pitch," He hunches his shoulders, "Told me to set up for when _What's-His-Face_ gets here."

"_Kyle_," Tammy makes a sweeping gesture towards him. Kyle tries thinking of the last time he's been _presented_, and on his _own_ for that matter. The most notable thing he did without Stan was showing up as a guest on David's cooking show, _Holy Mole_. They barely heard of each other before meeting on set, not that it stopped them from sharing a few bottles of wine after shooting. David made sure he took all the Rioja Reserva when he left. He always did have shit taste in reds.

"Yeah, _him_," Clyde hasn't noticed Kyle. He doesn't until Tammy gives him a look, bobs her head in his direction. Only then do his eyes follow her arms' guidance, shifting, shifting, then falling on Kyle. Nothing registers in the chestnut, Clyde staring a good while before he blinks. _Then_ it clicks, "…_Oh_."

Underwhelmed and unimpressed: at least he's honest. Kyle gives a quick wave.

"_You're short." _

And he sighs. Even the _official_ pages tacked an extra inch to his height listing. Gotta love those _fan expectations_.

"You're such a prick!" Tammy lunges towards Clyde with an open palm. Clyde yelps, lifts his controller up as his shield, though he guards his face with the neck instead of the body. Tammy circumvents his defences with a swift sidestep, reaching out and slapping him upside the head. With a groan, Clyde rubs his now sore ear, Tammy's expression morphing from anger to pride. Clyde shoots her a dirty look. Mick's employees really must be _family_, dysfunctions included.

"Cut it out, you two!" A grizzled voice bellows, draws Kyle's eyes to the door tucked near the snack bar's employee entrance. He missed it last night, too woozy to notice the unassuming panel blending with the wall, although the peeling paint and clunky knob ruin its secrecy. A portly man emerges, face weathered and worn, combover ashy as the cigarette between his teeth. The cherry lights up when he takes a drag, smoke leaking from his lips with each ambling stride. He doesn't have a nametag, nor does he need one, his name already displayed on the _Mick's Bowling Lanes_ patch embroidered on his chest.

"Yeah, Tammy," Kenny pops out behind him. His arms stretch over his head, exposing the ink wires powering his bicep and tricep. For that level of detail, he either paid out his ass or struck a deal with a local shop, or both, "Last thing we need is Clyde crying on the electronics 'cause you hurt his feelings."

"Fuck you, dude!" Clyde throws up a middle finger, but nobody cares.

Kyle glimpses sky blue, the embers within smouldering once more, but it's Kenny's stupid, goofy grin that rekindles the campfire's blaze. He can't remember the last time he felt this kind of warmth, if he's ever felt it at all. It's not like the rushes he got with the help of booze and white dust; this is heat mollifies, mellows, melts. He likes it.

Kenny darts around Mick, too impatient to trudge behind his ambling pace, makes it to Kyle in a leap and two bounds. He gets as close as he can without forsaking personal space, remains respectfully in Kyle's orbit. People around celebrities operate like living demonstrations of Kepler's law or Copernicus' theory—Kyle can't remember which it is—because planets revolve around stars. Or they do until stars implode or explode, fucking up the gravitational forces around them and eliminating planets through black holes or supernovas. Although Kyle's nothing but remnant, he must have some latent pull working on Kenny. Or maybe it's the other way around.

"_You made it,"_ Kenny says, so that Kyle can say something back, prove he isn't hallucinating.

Kyle smirks, affirms he isn't seeing stars, "Thought I'd stand you up?"

"Well," Kenny looks at him like a person, "I was _hoping_ you wouldn't. But…"

Though he trails off, a cough fills the gap. Mick snares Kyle in an unblinking stare, sizing him up, and takes a long drag. Kyle is no stranger to scrutiny, the limelight littered with paparazzi prying and journalists probing, live dissection commonplace as an operating room. But the voyeuristic hordes wanted _trophies_, sliced off pieces of him to encase on their blogs, to saturate their feeds with thrilling tales of their quarry and the hunt. Mick doesn't know Kyle, doesn't know his value—_if_ he has _any_ value—so his eyes search, seek, _scout_.

"_You're the one Kenny's on about?" _

Kyle says nothing at first, because, for a second, he isn't there. He's back in complete obscurity, standing in his and Stan's apartment, staring at the business card thrusted into his hands. Anyone could've come to their door, but the one who knocked first was Charles Kincade. The Miami Vice suit and Palm Beach pomade looked so out of place in their living room, his offers of fortune and fame just as foreign. If Kincade didn't sign them, someone else would've, or that's what Kyle tells himself to feel better. However, considering the consequences, he always ends up feels worse.

"Yeah, Mick, he's _the guy_," Kenny yanks him through time, through the memories he blurred, the regrets he absorbed, the past Kyle disgraces by merely existing. He leaves the last bit out, "Part of the duo that broke a hundred thousand points with just self-training, then got signed to the pro leagues and reigned undefeated for months in the most elite circuits and—"

"_And he can't speak for himself?"_ Mick stops him short, question nothing short of a magnum round. He's a _no bullshit_ type, doesn't give two fucks about _talk, talk, talk,_ because people can _talk_ and _talk_ and _talk_ all they want yet never do a single goddamn thing.

Kenny blanches, smile struck, replaced with a grimace. First, it's shock, that Mick would interrupt him, that Kenny needed interruption, that he potentially interrupted Kyle. Then, as the gears turn in his head, embarrassment processes, gradually reintroduces the pink to his face. His blush accents the faint freckles lightly dusting his cheeks, then deepens when he realises what he was doing: _fanboying_. Kenny might consider it cringeworthy; Kyle finds it flattering.

Clyde laughs, a weak little _hehe_ vaguely imitating a Beavis and Butt-Head _huhu_. To Kenny, it's a welcome distraction, able to guise his flush as a glare. His eyes flicker to Tammy, only for a brief split-second. They must have special sort of synergy, Kenny communicating something in that absurdly short span and Tammy takes her cue, gives Clyde a not-so-soft shove. Even for Kyle it's oddly cathartic.

"_Psch_," Mick rolls his eyes, then sets his sights on green. He cocks a brow, and shoots, "It's _Kyle_, right?"

He gives a quick nod. _No bullshit_.

A smirk flashes on Mick's lips, almost like a twitch. Guess he appreciates Kyle's attitude, or more his adaptation. Or it really was a muscle spasm, "Whaddya play?"

Kyle shrugs, gives the same answer he's always given, "Whaddya _want_?"

Although he hates how it comes out—a dull and sour note, lacking confidence and conviction—but Mick hears something else. Or, at very least, his eyes don't glaze over like the producers' would. He lolls his head back, "Well these kids like calling me a _boomer_, so how about something _vintage_?"

"_Anything in particular?" _

He might be well versed in the classics, however not everyone can agree on what that means. Even genres run into that issue, something he and Stan found out first-hand when someone at an after-party requested they play a rock song. They didn't even make it through the first chorus of "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" before a fight broke out, because nobody could agree whether Panic! at the Disco was rock, pop-rock or emo. Kyle since learned it's much better to face these kinds of things with a sense of poise and rationality.

"How 'bout the Stooges, yeah?" There's something in his eyes as he says that, that twinkly lens often associated with those lost in reminisce, "Saw those guys _live_ in college."

"Back when dinosaurs still walked the earth," Tammy mutters, inspiring snickers from both Kenny and Clyde. Mick blinks, the haze clearing instantly, and looks to them with disappointment. _Kids these days_, right?

Kyle pauses, thinks a moment. The Stooges fall into a sort of grey area, initially viewed as a rawer rendition of rock and roll, then retrospectively deemed champions of proto-punk. They had an avant-garde approach, integrating odd noises and calling them instruments, long before Christopher Walken demanded _more cowbell_. Stan liked to say they cultivated distortion, or were the leaders of it at the time, showing some reverence to Iggy Pop for his influence on hard rock and heavy metal. Though, from a performance standpoint, Stan always pointed out how the guy was _fucking_ _batshit_.

All true _rock-n-rollas_ are.

When he walks towards the console, his whole mode shifts, casting off idleness so he can finally _do something_ today. Kenny must notice because, instead of following, he takes a step back, lifts a brow as he gets a better view. Tammy follows suit, slinking off so Kyle has all the room he needs. Only Clyde stays in place, watching Kyle approach like an oncoming car, gawking at him like a pair of headlights. Kyle stops beside him, stares expectantly. Clyde, however, reciprocates with a blank look, unable to understand what exactly Kyle expects.

Kyle sighs, points to the controller, _"Can I have that?"_

"_Shit, yeah, dude,"_ Clyde says in a breath, thrusts the guitar into Kyle's arms, nearly knocks him over with it. As Kyle steadies his footing, Clyde rushes off before he can look stupid. Well, look any _more_ stupid.

While he toggles through menus, he listens to the others chattering, bickering, bantering. He knows they aren't talking about him—or anything that really concerns him—but paranoia's a habit he still hasn't quite kicked. Unsurprisingly, though, it's a whole lot of nothing, _something-something-this_ and _something-something-that_. When he gets to the song list he catches Clyde grumble, then, after he's partway down the tracks, he hears Tammy huff. Something-something, footsteps, something-something, and Kyle finds the Stooges' section.

It may not be the most complicated song, but he decides on "I Wanna Be Your Dog." Kyle used to think it was overplayed, mostly because every band and their mother did a cover of it, though he warmed up to it after playing it a few times. Correction, after playing on _guitar_ a few times, since the bass is laughably dull. Besides, everyone loves it for the three-chord riff.

And that _one_ piano key. Just the one.

Once again, he stares down that dingey concert club stage, the one that witnessed his rise and fall. Yet, every time he appears before the polygonal models, he doesn't feel the last part. That had nothing to do with _Rock Band_. The game never did him wrong; people did. Playing was all that kept him going through his darkest days, and though he thought he'd _never_ pick it up again, his passion for it kept him going this whole time. He doesn't need superstardom. Kyle just needs to _play_.

The computerised crowd gets pumped, gets wild, goes apeshit as their coding allows. As a drum taps its countdown, Kyle stays cognizant of his real audience, of those not imprisoned in the screen, whose reactions are not already programmed. The first two gems appear on the guitar neck's horizon, and Kyle bites his lip.

Songs with iconic intros frontload their pressures. Any minor flub during the opener everyone knows quickly presents as a major mistake, the make-or-break moment preceding even the first verse. That in mind, Kyle fixates on the screen, takes great care with his timing. Yellow-orange _hold_. Red-blue _hold_. Yellow-green, yellow-green, yellow-green _hold_.

Gems pour in a flurry, each one daring him to do it, mess up already. It only takes one misplaced finger on the wrong part of the neck. It only takes one premature tap before the note enters its hit box. It only takes a tiny bit to blow the biggest chance he's got.

He's already blown that, though. He's blown his life in luxury's lap. He's blown his future in halls of fame. He's blown having a best friend who'd be with him to the end. _Been there, done that_. Kyle slams down on red and green, pressing harder during the closing hold, leans back as the guitar lets out a reverberating yowl.

At the sight of white, Kyle releases, albeit a hair too soon. Punished for his eagerness, colour again saturates the gems after only a few notes. Whatever, he thinks, the bells pick up and signal he's cleared the most important part anyhow. He can still hear admonishments in the back of his mind, the echoes of former coaches and ghosts of past critics, telling him how he ought to take the whole song seriously, how thinking anything less caps him at a second-rate wannabe, never good enough to achieve _superstardom_.

It's _so messed up_.

Punk, at its heart, is about disillusionment. The dissonance palpable in melodies mirrors the one permeating the rotten establishment. Kyle never cared too deeply for the genre—the mainstream has an uncanny way of absorbing and appropriating even the most rebellious counter-cultures—but something about this, about the trancelike beat and the heavy distortion and the dismal lyrics, just _vibes_.

"_Now I wanna be your dog! And now I wanna be your dog! And now I wanna be your dog!" _

Superstardom is a hopeless_,_ pointless, _pitiable_ dream. It always was. Once upon a time, Kyle truly believed it could be attained. Devotion, dedication, sacrifice; all those yuppy slogans used in specific combination would eventually result in that magic moment. So, he devoted himself to practicing for hours upon hours, even though most crowds were more forgiving towards their favourites. He dedicated himself to entertaining the masses, despite his influencer status being completely manufactured and more of a joke to him. He sacrificed his everything and his all and anything else that may come after, but he didn't see the tiny asterisk beside that clause and read any of the fucking fine print.

What a shitty goal to strive towards. What a waste of what he could accomplish. What a mistake, a mistake, _definitely_ a mistake.

He's made some ancillary ones, a couple erroneous guitar strums hitching as Iggy sings from the back of his throat. Kyle damns his untuned fingers out of habit. His _own_ habit, a kind of perfectionism he's suffered since boyhood, not one drilled in by competition. That must have been one of the few things they liked about him; he could focus on his shortcomings without being called out. No one had to batter down his strong will with brute force. They only had to agree, and the backdoor opened for them, and Kyle rolled over for them.

"_Now I wanna be your dog! And now I wanna be your dog! And now I wanna be your dog!" _

That's what they both said, what Stan and Kyle both committed to paper when they were first poached. They didn't want to be broke college graduates, didn't want to work their asses off for crappy hourly wages, didn't want to eat instant ramen and drink stale beer and spend their supposed best years absolutely hating their lives. Everything sucked, except playing together. That was the one thing they had.

Kyle knew it was too good to be true. Even thumbing over the granulated cardstock, listening to Kincaide speed through the contract, he knew that this would all come with a catch. Stan did too. As that recruitment spiel rattled on endlessly, he and Kyle traded glances, asking each other if they wanted to do this, if they _should_ do this. Like those distant fabled choices of marriage and family expansion, this was a mutual decision, one they would take together and only together. But they were both desperate, and desperate people rarely think of the right questions.

They sure didn't, because they thought the same stupid thing: _What've we got to lose?_

"_Well come on!" _

A _hoo-unh-hoo_ prefaces the closing solo, scoring switching to show his percentage. Only when he pays closer attention to the gems does he notice how little mind he's paid the screen. It hasn't hurt his score, not as much as he expected at least, though he knows that little extra effort _would've_ helped. The guitar neck can flaunt its semi-transparent flourishes all it wants; it doesn't make up for the points he _could've_ gotten.

Synergic combos bleach the gems again, and Kyle is struck by how goddamn _entitled_ he is, even now, even after, even when he has no reason to be. He knows he's washed up; does he need to _act_ like it too? Every half-assed attempt lends credence to the narrative that Kyle only gives his most lukewarm effort, that Kyle only has tepid investment in his skills, that Kyle is lacklustre and talentless and rides off and on others. Even the most textbook _rock-n-rollas_ suffer varying degrees of burnout, but since Kyle isn't one, never was one, isn't that just a crappy excuse for mediocrity?

Unlike the vinyl, the solo does not go on and on as it fades into the distance. The stage demands a clean cut-off. While Kyle understands its reasoning, he hates how it sounds, harsh and abrupt. It makes him think of someone ripping out an aux cord, music meeting a needlessly violent end. He'd compare it to himself, but there was nothing lyrical or lovely about his former life. There's nothing like it now either.

Kyle shuts his eyes before his final score shows up. He isn't sure if it's worth looking at. He ignored the numbers last night, too manic and delirious to process the numbers, his transient euphoria greater than his reading comprehension. Perhaps he did well then on a fluke, enough to fool Kenny, and his performance tonight proves that he's what they always muttered he was: a glorified amateur who never deserved the big leagues in the first place.

"_Damn."_

His eyes open, accompanied by a sharp inhale. Was he holding his breath the whole time?

Kyle turns around, his gaze falling swiftly on his audience of two. Kenny's enthusiasm engulfs him, exuding the same energy as a fully booked stadium, emotion so palpable Kyle can _feel_ them. Except the throngs of undulating masses couldn't generate something so _satiating. _There's something unequivocally _personal_ about the way he smiles, something that makes Kyle's tension melt away, grant him a moment's refreshment.

It has a grapefruity taste.

A guttural noise comes from the back of Mick's throat, a cross between phlegm and _ahem_. Kenny looks to him first, although Kyle knows Mick wants green eyes, not blue. Kyle reluctantly shifts to the dark eyes fixed austerely upon him. The cherry lights red, and he takes the cigarette from his lips.

"You're _good_ at that game, kid," Mick speaks smoothly, voice smouldering with sincerity as grey wafts from his lips, "_Too good_ to be playing in a _dump like this_."

He doesn't know what to say at first. _Yes_, he is good? _Yes_, this place is a dump? _Yes_, but none of those details matter all too much, do they? Kyle is much better responding to fake compliments; the real ones send him into shock.

"_Maybe_," Kyle says, thinking aloud, talking to himself. Only when Mick cocks a brow does he realise the word escaped from his mouth. Bullshit, maybe's a bullshit answer, and Kyle's done bullshitting, "But I'm the best entertainment you got."

Mick smirks. Not a muscle spasm, a deliberate expression.

"_So…_" Kenny slyly elbows Mick in the side. Though Mick's smile vanishes, Kenny nurtures his grin, the curve becoming more lopsided as Mick's narrowed eyes focus on him. For a split second—or the split of a split second—the blue flickers to Kyle. Unless he's the one seeing things. Kenny tilts his head and, in a _pretty-please_ tone, asks, _"Can he stay?" _

Mick looks at Kenny a long while, then turns to face Kyle one more time. He remains in pensive silence until, finally, he takes another drag of his cigarette, shrugs his shoulders nonchalant.

"_Ehh_," The smoke obfuscates his paternal smile, "Guess I can't say _no_ to helpin' a kid who's down on his luck."

Kyle doubts it's luck, but he can't name what it is. Looking at that smile, he supposes luck is close enough.


End file.
